


The Best Laid Plans the World Has Never Seen

by maddieaddam



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous Slash, Episode: s01e08 The Last Patrol, M/M, Minor Character Death, Navel-Gazing, Rare Pairings, Second-Hand Embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:33:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9655382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddieaddam/pseuds/maddieaddam
Summary: Two outsiders find their place after finding one another, but in the last way either of them expects.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction inspired by and only intended to represent the roles played in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers. No disrespect is meant to the real men of Easy Company. 
> 
> Title and opening quote are from Brain Trust Kid, by Glen Phillips, which is my ultimate Webster anthem. And this is really more of a Webster-centric character study than a true pairing fic, I think, but there's a smooch so I'm sliding it in under the wire.

_There’s nothing in the world to save you now_  
_As everyone lines up to blame you_  
_Oh, brain trust kid_

_So much for the best laid plans the world has never seen_  
_But we’ll stay heroes in each other’s eyes_  
_Beloved in our dreams_  
_Oh, brain trust kid_

_There’s no one in the world to save you_

 

There’s an expression that entertainers use, particularly comedians: _reading the room_ , they call it, which means maintaining an awareness of the emotional energy and engagement being given off by any sort of crowd. Someone who can’t read the room is far more likely to offend the majority with an ill-chosen joke, or simply lose their interest because not only do they lack the skills to tailor their performance to a particular sort of crowd, but – well, they don’t understand that energy in the first place.

Web’s never been great at reading a room.

In fact, he thinks the biggest barrier between himself and any real social bond with most of the men in Easy Company is his inability to read the room at any time. They can’t just be lacking in _any_ points of commonality, given how much they do have in common: all men, most of a certain age, all from the same country, all fighting for the same cause, all facing the same risks every single day. At least among his own rank, he’s sure he could find things to say that wouldn’t make the other men laugh, or look through him blankly, or just roll their eyes in disinterested annoyance, if he could get a better grasp of what _does_ kickstart communication in their circle. 

As he hops off the jeep that carried him to Haguenau and thanks the man driving, he thinks he’s got a lock on how best to reintroduce himself. What better time to tap into the brotherly camaraderie they’re all meant to share, right? It’ll mean something to them, surely, to know that they’re remembered and have been missed, that Webster still carries small details from their even smaller conversations in his well-organized file cabinet of a mind. 

So why does it all go wrong? _He can’t read the room._ Or the line of trucks, in this case, each one packed with filthy, exhausted, glowering men who have absolutely no interest in bonding with someone who’s just strutted up overflowing with energy and looking squeaky clean and groomed. He’s an offense to their eyes and sensibilities on multiple levels, and the more he tries to ingratiate himself, the more he rubs them the wrong way. Accidentally inquiring after nearly every fatality or loss they suffered in Bastogne just feels like a fluke; it’s not until Liebgott finally explains the depth of his unintentional betrayal that he understands in full, and the way it hits all at once makes his stomach feel like it’s dropped right to the center of the Earth.

Jesus, if that isn’t a new record for fucking up right out of the gate. Even explaining that he didn’t mean… _any_ of it, not a single part, would do nothing to clean up this mess. It would be even more offensive, the idea that he could deliver such a sustained insult so carelessly.

He’s not just at a loss for how to continue, but at a more general loss with every new person he asks for information and every new piece they give him – it’s nearly impossible to keep track of who’s been promoted, sent home missing vital pieces, or sent so far away that it gives his heart a painful pang to think of it too long, if he doesn’t ask someone. But he’s playing Russian roulette every time he asks and two of those chambers are very, very loaded, and so far his luck really has been abysmal.

(Hoob. He liked Hoob so much, always felt like he gave the option for Web to laugh along so he wouldn’t be laughing _at_ him quite so harshly. Hoob was one of the few people here that Webster could call a friend without a second’s hesitation. Having him vanish with no idea how it happened is difficult, but anyone he tries to ask about it could be the one who held his hand as it went slack. No more taking that chance.)

The pure coincidence of having a new officer stumble into the same place, looking for the same person as Webster, all with the same utterly lost expression on his face, is enough of a shift in that miserable luck to capture Webster’s undivided attention. With Luz still snappish and Lip so far under the weather, this man is his only chance for any sort of conversation right now, and with everyone in Easy Company loathing him? He may also be Webster’s only chance for a friendship.

He’s stiff, though. Officious. Webster doesn’t think the other men’ll like that much, especially not when they’ve still got the specter of Sobel in their minds and have since become accustomed to – well. He doesn’t know what they’re accustomed to now because he doesn’t know the first thing about Captain Speirs, but officers like Winters and Nixon and Welsh have always offered a subdued sort of friendliness to those who would take it without sacrificing their level of respect in response. The company’s not without self-discipline, certainly not sloppy or casual, just not comfortable under the weight of –

A sudden rush of activity pulls Webster out of more rumination on the habits and tastes of a company he hardly knows anymore, neither in appearance nor manner. The weariness with which Nixon and Winters deliver the orders for a patrol that night and Speirs accepts them, everyone sloughing off blame and emphasizing that there’s no need for undue effort – it would all be poignant, if poignancy didn’t demand a sort of distance from the truth of the situation. They’re all right in the middle of it, and Webster hasn’t yet managed to find his feet in any real sense, so it ends up being much closer to alarming.

Everything still feels like it’s happening around him because of that unsteadiness in his footing, too; his mind is ticking over, gathering information – Lieutenant Jones, West Point graduate, a patrol, Heffron McClung Ramirez, Jones not leading despite lack of qualified ranking officers – but when he tries to move beyond facts, he just finds himself feeling mildly annoyed that people still refuse to address the very basic question of which platoon he’s meant to join. With an officer also being so blatantly disrespected right in front of him, even a fresh-faced and officious kid just out of West Point, Webster feels more secure in his impression that everyone is taking the line in the sand between At Bastogne and Not At Bastogne a bit more seriously than is appropriate.

Not until the two of them finally join second platoon does Webster realize they’re not just being disrespected. This is more systemic and widespread than disrespect, and much more deliberate. 

They’re being _bullied._

\--

“Private Webster?” 

Even if it weren’t so unusual to hear his rank before his name that way, Webster could hardly mistake the stiff formality in Jones’s tone for anyone else. They’ve got a quick breather before the briefing about this patrol, so Webster’s tucked himself into a particularly narrow gap between two houses to avoid being spotted while he has a cigarette. There doesn’t seem to be any such thing as a positive encounter or conversation here, and he just wants to relax for a split second.

He lifts his eyes from where he’s had them fixed on the cigarette in his hands, peering through the shadow before offering Jones a friendly smile. Jones looks oddly – ill at ease over addressing Webster, and he can’t think what could’ve caused the unease.

“Lieutenant Jones, I think we’ve already been through enough together that you’ve earned the right to call me Web like everyone else.” Webster means his offer to be friendly as well, but it causes Jones to bristle very visibly, so he’s quick to add: “Not that I’d ever take the same liberty without your consent. Sir.”

After all, the last thing he needs is another enemy, especially not the one person left who might still befriend him.

Rather than looking eased by his concession, Jones just hunches his shoulders and glances in one direction, then the other, before letting out a long sigh and letting them drop again. “No, I think it’s you who has the right idea… Web,” he finally says, and all that officious edge in his voice has been so severely blunted in a single day that Webster thinks this must be even worse for him. “There doesn’t seem to be very much regard for appropriate behaviour or levels of formality in this company.”

_Formality._ Webster smiles and nods to himself. Formal is a better descriptor than officious, more accurate and only logical for someone coming out of by-the-book military school. 

“It’s easier to understand if you were at Camp Toccoa, but –”

“Oh, no, please understand, I didn’t mean to criticize anyone!” Jones cuts him off so quickly, and with such alarm, that Webster almost finds it funny – until he remembers how many interactions between Jones and the other officers have happened in his presence. Just what does he think Webster is all about, anyway? 

“I didn’t think you did, Lieutenant Jones,” he says gently. “And if I did, I wouldn’t have anything to say about it, not to anyone but you. These men are my brothers in arms, it’s true, but you must have noticed the family’s not getting along very well right now.”

Yet again, Webster’s made a misstep while trying to be comforting; Jones just looks embarrassed at the implication that he should have noticed any such thing, like it would’ve been prying beyond his business. “Well,” he says, and Webster has almost decided that he’s not going to say anything else when he finally continues: “I have to admit that it’s been hard to miss. I – also have to admit that I couldn’t help but wonder – if –”

“Permission to speak freely granted, sir,” Webster says with a lopsided smile, head tilted disarmingly forward and to one side, and Jones finally smiles back at him. It’s a small, sheepish smile, but it’s a start.

“You have to understand that West Point is a very competitive atmosphere,” he begins, eyes shifting away uncomfortably, and that’s all it takes for Webster to know what he’s about to say; he stays quiet, though, to show the confession proper respect. “I wondered at first if you might not be – sabotaging me, to try and take the attention off yourself.”

“Christ,” Webster laughs. What _has_ he done for Jones so far? Given him false information about Malarkey that made him look like a fool, among other honest mistakes, and encouraged him to volunteer for Malarkey’s place on the patrol since his own qualifications weren’t enough. He’s guessing that didn’t go very well, based on Jones’s entire manner; it might even have been taken as disrespectful after Speirs already turned him down. “Christ, it really must look like it. No, I’ve been trying to help you out, if you can believe it. But I’m done trying, don’t worry, you don’t need any more blowback from the bullshit getting thrown at me.”

After a long silence, Jones looks back up at Webster with another uncertain grin. “I’m on the patrol.”

“What? Really?”

“Really,” he says, only a bit of breathlessness revealing the true scope of his excitement and relief. “That’s what I came to tell you. Captain Winters made the final call, mostly to relieve Sergeant Malarkey. You were right about that.”

Webster’s actually taken aback by just how happy he feels for Jones in this moment, especially considering they barely know one another, even with the way they’ve been thrust together by the situation. If they did know one another well and Jones weren’t quite so physically guarded, Webster might hug him.

Of course, the idea is unthinkable as things stand, but Webster can actually feel the strain of how broadly he’s smiling. That’ll do, he thinks. It’s probably just Jones’s speed.

“Well, then, you’d better get to the briefing with me!” Webster can’t help how jovial he sounds, and he’s not sure that Jones exactly appreciates it, but the sidelong glance he cants in Webster’s direction doesn’t suggest that he resents it either. 

He’s just getting his footing. Both of them are. And against all odds, Webster seems to be helping Jones’s case after all.

\--

It doesn’t take Webster very long to realize that every action he takes to help one person is going to have an equal and opposite reaction with another. It also doesn’t escape his notice that, whether on the positive or negative side, Joseph Liebgott is always involved.

He’s trying not to develop a complex around the issue, but Liebgott – who he only knew as well as any of the others before he was wounded – is on him like a shadow. Already he’s managed to orchestrate enough of Webster’s gestures of good will to make Webster wonder if he’s acted of his own volition once, and that’s verging on paranoid. Liebgott had nothing to do with helping Jones, for example. 

(Or did he? Didn’t he overhear Heffron and Liebgott talking about how long it had been since Malarkey had caught a break? God, he’s really losing his mind.)

In any case, helping Jones didn’t really help very much at all, what with Martin being so grudgingly roped into lead on the patrol and Jones dropped to the rear to observe. Webster knows they couldn’t let him take lead, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch Jones talk with Malarkey about it and see the very simple source of their breakdown in communication: Jones needs experience to be taken seriously in his role, and has trained for this role for years now, but Malarkey has been through so much experience that he can no longer imagine it being positive in any way. 

Everyone here is trying to outrun a war to which Jones hasn’t even caught up yet. That kind of disconnect must be unbearable. 

As the endless minutes and hours ahead of 0100 drag on, each more interminable than the last, Webster grows more and more restless until he decides that he needs to talk to Jones one more time before the patrol. He never meant for Jones to be put on the spot before the briefing, forced to listen to whispers – no, just quiet discussion, no one had the decency even to whisper – about how unfit he was to lead. He also never meant to put Jones on Martin’s radar that way, and though Martin isn’t the type to target someone for prolonged badgering (he’s got a very evenly spread, universal bad temper, at least from what Webster’s seen), there could still be enough unpleasantness to warrant an apology on Webster’s part.

He just needs to stop interfering, clearly, because intent is making no difference in outcome. 

He finds Jones slowly, thoughtfully stringing his West Point graduation ring onto his dog tag chain and invites him outside for a breath of fresh air – not the easiest line to pull off when it’s as cold inside as outside, but Jones doesn’t appear to smoke and the other men are filling the close little basement with a thick blue-grey haze, not to mention that the tension in the air is only slightly thinner than that cloud of cigarette smoke. Jones follows, a curious frown on his face, the fingers of one hand playing nervously with his ring.

“This –” Webster clears his throat, pauses, tries again. “- this obviously isn’t how I saw things going when I set this whole ball rolling…”

Jones’s single, half-hearted huff of laughter creates a thicker cloud than Webster’s slowly exhaled cigarette smoke, the night is so unreasonably cold. “No, I know that. I did move past that suspicion.”

“… but that’s not even really the point. I never should’ve started interfering at all. I thought I was helping, all this time, and it just keeps getting worse. You don’t need anyone making things worse right now.”

Jones gives him a long, long look, much more frank and open than any he’s turned on Webster before, but also utterly indecipherable. Webster can’t tell if he’s being judged, assessed, if Jones is amused or irritated or if maybe he’s just spotted some kind of smudge on Webster’s face, but the look lingers so long that he finds himself glancing away with a shy sort of discomfort. He’s just able to see in his peripheral vision when Jones looks away as well. 

“I haven’t been giving you the impression that I expect your help, have I?”

Whatever Webster thought Jones’s look meant, it certainly wasn’t anything that could prepare him for that question. His mouth falls open, but he’s really got no response so he’s just left gaping at Jones rather stupidly, while Jones’s face goes rather pink as he scrambles to explain: “I only ask because – I’ve seen you do the same for Joseph Liebgott –”

“- And Liebgott’s anything but subtle about angling for it,” Webster finishes for him, because he’s more uncomfortable right now than Webster’s ever seen him, and that’s saying something. “I owe the rest of these guys something, Lieutenant Jones. I owe them a lot. Maybe _this_ – all these little gestures, maybe they won’t ever pay my debt, but I’m willing to try as long as they keep giving me chances.”

Jones starts to nod, but something causes his brows to draw down and he pauses, taking a moment to choose his words before speaking his concern aloud. “But you don’t owe me anything.”

“No, I don’t. But we’re both on the outside here, right? And no one is giving _you_ any footholds… any chances. They’re not the sort of thing you can make on your own.” Webster scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground, once again caught in a moment of strange shyness. “I just hope I haven’t made things worse for you.”

Jones’s cheeks are still too pink to be explained by the cold. He looks lost, then anxious, then decisive, and gives Webster a firm nod before the last can shift into something new. 

“Thank you, Private Webster. You haven’t –” It’s Jones’s turn to pause now, clear his throat uneasily. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me find my place here.”

As he watches Jones stride purposefully back into the house, all Webster can think about is the fact that he’s been shunted back down to Private Webster, and that leaves him feeling bereft of something he’s no longer sure he ever really had.

\--

No one knows how to process Jackson’s death, not really. It shows on all of their faces: some look lost, some angry, some sad, but regardless of how much combat someone has seen and how many brothers they’ve already lost, the senselessness of this particular death hits them just as hard.

Webster gets lost in useless, maudlin thoughts of speaking to Jackson on the disaster of a day he returned to Easy Company; Jackson came the closest to polite and civil of all the men, which Webster didn’t deserve in the slightest, but which still provided a welcome respite when Heffron and Liebgott had their heads craned in opposite directions to freeze him out as completely as possible. He may simply have developed the habit of deferring to everyone because he joined the army so young, of course, but he seemed like a good kid. 

What truly marks a death as a waste in the traveling mausoleum that is war? Webster doesn’t know, but he knows Jackson’s meets the qualifications.

The eerie but respectful quiet that’s fallen over all of them like a suffocating shroud after the first patrol shatters when news spreads of a second patrol scheduled for that very night. Suddenly nerves are pulled taut all over again, tempers are fraying at the seams, and Webster finds himself plunged into an endless mental loop of reminding himself that he’s powerless to change this for anyone and despairing over that same fact. It’s hard to imagine how he survived if everything moved this quickly and relentlessly in Holland, offering him no chance to catch his breath and take stock of the situation before a new one took hold and yanked him away, and he finds that he can’t actually remember if it did. Holland is nothing but an amorphous blur for him now, a smudge across his memory.

That’s when he understands, or comes as close as he ever will to understanding, the gravity of the insult he committed against these men when he tried to talk to them as though they were all on equal footing. He can only look back and reflect on Holland, use it as a counterbalance for the present like this, because he had such a long holiday from the war; for the rest of the men in Easy Company, the chaos has never ceased, not for a single second. Forget Jackson’s death – they haven’t had the chance to process _anything._

He feels a powerful urge to talk to Heffron, then an even more powerful one to talk to Liebgott, but the actual notion of doing either makes his stomach turn with nerves and he hesitates. Just because he understands doesn’t change the fact that not only did he miss Bastogne and never try to return, he never even thought of returning before he was fully healed. There’s still something very fundamental about him, right in his very core, which will always keep him from relating fully to the other soldiers.

“Private Webster?” 

Webster really doesn’t mean to wince when he hears Jones address him that way, but he knows there’s no explaining it or taking it back once it’s happened. “Lieutenant Jones,” he says, low and hesitant, trying not to notice how Jones’s immaculate posture slumps a little; he can’t even imagine how Jones found him here, tucked away in the basement of a house they don’t use on a regular basis so he can remain paralyzed by his indecision in peace, never mind what he was expecting and didn’t get.

“Web,” Jones corrects himself, which is just about the last thing Webster expects from him in return, but he follows it up with nothing to make the choice any clearer; in fact, he follows it up with silence. Webster doesn’t think he’s ever been left at such a profound loss in his life.

“Are… you alright, Lieutenant Jones?”

After a moment that feels like hours caught up in seconds, like time itself warping beyond what Webster can comprehend, Jones continues: “Henry. That’s my full name, Henry Jones. Not that I expect you to call me Henry, but – I do want to feel like someone here knows me. My first name is – a start –”

Even with Jones falling apart right in front of him like this, some powerful instinct restrains Webster before he can respond with a hug; he rests a hand on Jones’s shoulder instead, then slides it lightly down to his upper arm and gives a gentle squeeze he hopes will feel encouraging. “It’s a great start. I’m glad to meet you, Henry.”

And just when Webster thinks he can’t possibly feel any more lost, Jones steps closer and kisses him softly on the lips.

_Was he blushing the night of the patrol?_ Webster thinks, and then: _Is this why he winced when Martin joked about massaging Perco’s ass?_ Thoughts keep popping up one after the other, like bubbles on the surface of a glass of soda: _Did he think I was flirting with him all this time? Was I flirting with him? How long has he felt like this about me, and how obvious has it been? Could I have done something to –_

_\- stop. Just for this one fucking second, stop thinking._

When he stops thinking, he finds that the kiss feels nice in a way he couldn’t begin to explain. He’s not sure that it’s grounded in attraction, but he thinks it could be, given enough time to grow from this point; more than anything, kissing someone offers him a level of _connection_ that he hasn’t felt in so long, and that holds so true to what Jones has offered him thus far that kissing doesn’t seem like such a strange thing for them to do. 

Jones looks terrified when he pulls away, lips pressed together so hard that Webster thinks they must be close to trembling with emotion – has his lower one always been that full and flushed with colour? – and he marvels at the fact that he ever thought himself as much of an outsider and as much in need of understanding as this man. At least they found each other, however it happened.

“Jones,” Webster says, his voice so slow and distrait that he hardly recognizes it as his own, then corrects himself just as Jones did earlier: “Henry. It’s okay. This – I can’t promise you anything right now, but no matter what, it’s okay.”

“Okay,” Jones repeats in nothing but a breath. “Okay. It’s okay.”

Before he can stop himself, Webster brings the hand still holding Jones’s arm up to cup his cheek. It feels feverishly hot under his palm, which makes him flush in some kind of confused echo. He’s just opening his mouth to ask something horribly unfair, something for which he’d never forgive himself, when Jones carefully extricates himself from his touch and gives him that familiar, brisk nod.

No. He can’t do this again.

“Okay. Now I’m ready.” Jones smiles, a real and brilliant smile. “Thank you – Web.”

_Oh._

“David,” Webster tells the empty basement after Jones has left. “It’s David.”

\--

When Speirs invites Jones to join the rest of the officers at company CP, Jones, who Webster could tell was approaching him to start a conversation, takes a step or two in the same direction as the captains before turning to give Webster an uncertain look.

Webster just nods, then turns to watch the last clouds of smoke and particulate debris rise from the site of their first – and only – patrol. 

When Jones is promoted to First Lieutenant and, thus, to an office where no mortars will send him scrambling and no frantic soldiers will need soothing while one of their brothers screams his last because he misjudged the explosion time of his own mortar, Luz wryly comments that Webster’s lost another platoon leader. 

Webster just nods, mouth quirking in a half-smile, and prepares himself to congratulate Jones when, in reality, seeing him mesh so well with the officers and then hearing he’s about to leave feels – unreasonably and unfairly – like being deserted.

When Jones gets a firm, genuinely respectful handshake from Martin and can’t stop beaming even as it happens, Webster keeps his distance, waiting for Jones’s eyes to find his. Somehow, he knows that if he’s patient, they will – and they do. 

Webster just nods, smiling wanly in return, then continues on his way to the truck that will carry second platoon to wherever –

“Here.”

\- his thoughts grind to a halt as he stares at the gloved hand extended down from the back of the truck in confused disbelief. Someone’s offering him a hand up.

_Liebgott_ is offering him a hand up.

He doesn’t know when or how or what, exactly, did the trick, but he’s paid his debt. 

A sincere smile spreads across his face as he accepts Liebgott’s hand up, and when Liebgott starts to laugh, he joins in that as well. Neither reaction involves any thought on his part, only an instinctual reflection of the others around him that seems to creates a sort of feedback loop until everyone’s laughing with no idea what got them started.

Who first made him feel so distant from these men, he wonders, before he ever disappeared to a field hospital: them, or himself?

Maybe, all along, it was just another failure to read the room - or maybe he was trying to read something in a language that could never be translated into the written word.


End file.
